Nightmasters: Doubles Talk: Doubles Talk, #1

By Loran Holt

Kelgan Defthand is used to being top dog at the Academy of Magic where he is Senior Apprentice Mage. Compared to his peers, he's faster, more skillful, and well aware of it, but when he finds himself beset by fearful voices that come in the night, his confidence is shaken.Adding to his worries, Kelgan is summoned to the headmaster, Sargal's presence; it looks like he's really in trouble. But to his bewilderment, he finds he's being sent on a "mission" with two very hostile-seeming aristocratic twins, Neroma and Upon embarking on this mission with the twins, Kelgan soon realizes the world outside the cloistered Academy is a bit different than he imagined. First of all, there seems to be women doing magic! Secondly, he's not the only one hearing voices. Following a strange compulsion, Kelgan and the Di Nerrills find themselves seeking out the source of the voices, hoping to put an end to it. The fateful journey tests Kelgan's underdeveloped skills to the limit, and could come at an unbearable cost to both to him and his companions. Once Kelgan accepts the challenge of Magehood, there's no going back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Acorn Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393609018

Book preview

··· 1 ···

The Summons (which begins it all)

T

he voices came, night after night. Too much. Too little. Too soon. Too late. Too few. Too many. Then came the laughter, one high and mocking, one low and scornful.

The voices faded with the dawn. An hour of blessed sleep ensued before he rose to begin another round of the day’s obligations. This day, unable to keep his eyelids from drooping shut during his late afternoon tutoring session, he cut short a surprised pupil in the middle of an illusion. Muttering a feeble excuse, he hastened back to his room for an illicit nap. The sleepy chirping of birds settling in for the night startled him awake. He realized the lateness of the evening hour. For a moment he hated them, then he felt ashamed. They happily twittered, glad of every day. So should I be. Am I not doing what I have always wished for? So, should he be, but, of late, was not.

With a groan he rolled over the side of his cot and staggered to the small washstand with its apologetic mirror, Kelgan Defthand, Senior Apprentice Mage. Jokes about SAMs abounded among the lower classmen. He surveyed his hollow-eyed reflection with disfavor. It soberly regarded him—a snub nose, a wiry crop of sandy curls, indeterminate hazel eyes. Not exactly impressive. Only his lanky height set him apart from the crowd.

Kelgan had shown so much promise at the beginning. A dangerous promise. It had been so easy. As a latecomer to formal training at the Academy, he was already five years past the usual admission age of fourteen. His talent manifested itself during his toddler stage, but the death of his father kept him, the eldest of five, close to home. Only his mother’s remarriage had freed him.

His step-father, a miller and a kindly man, had insisted that Kelgan follow his heart and talent. He caught up with ease, quickly outstripping the other apprentices. He sailed through the basics of sorcery, cutting his apprenticeship from ten years to six as he rapidly earned the sobriquet of Defthand. Now he was a senior apprentice, just short months from graduation and only a bit older than his peers. During their recent lesson periods, his master, Sargal Wishworker, had begun to notice Kelgan’s slowed reflexes, wandering attention, and lackluster performances at even the simplest spell-casts. Sargal’s comments remained neutral, but his curiosity was obvious. The sudden inability of a senior star-pupil invited further scrutiny.

Kelgan acknowledged that his ego swelled with his ability, pride in his accomplishments earning him many a sour and resentful look from his less able fellows. Was that what was behind this? Could a disgruntled junior have concocted an oh-so-clever and spiteful retribution? No. This was sorcery far too sophisticated for a mere apprentice, even himself. The voices, more than just disembodied whispers, possessed distinct personalities. One, rash, impulsive and malicious, the other older, patient but infinitely cruel. He didn’t doubt that both represented pure evil.

A peremptory knocking at his door brought him back to reality with a start. He strode to the door and threw it open, giving no hint of the unease he felt at the unusual interruption.

You are summoned to Magister Wishworker’s study, announced one of the juniors with a smug smile.

A summons of this sort generally meant a dressing-down, and the junior made no effort to conceal his malice. Concealing his emotions, Kelgan acknowledged the summons with a curt nod, threw his cloak around his shoulders and followed the junior.

He paused to lock his door, remembering a past carelessness. The incident began innocently with a request from another junior.

Senior Apprentice Defthand, can you help me?

Of course, Second Year Apprentice Notready, he had replied, emphasizing the other’s title as he stared down his nose at the junior.

It’s the increase spell, s-s-sir, stammered the junior, I just can’t seem to increase anything more than the tiniest bit.

His mind gave an almost physical wince, as he recalled what happened next. The junior showed him the desiccated orange pip he wished to turn into a half-grown tree. Kelgan repeated the words of the basic increase mantra at least three times for the seeming dolt of an underclassman, who forgot at least three words every time, until at last Kelgan shouted the words himself. To his horror, the single orange pip became a small orchard, knocking the windows out of the dormitory and punching several nice holes in the ceiling.

Peals of laughter accompanied his performance. Three of his fellow year-mates, hidden in the closet, recited an echo spell every time he repeated the increase cantrip, thus tripling the effect of the spell. Pushing the memory from his mind with effort, he resumed his pose of superiority. Deliberately blocking any glimpse of his room from the curious junior, he stepped out and fastened the door behind him.

A blustery wind assailed them as they left the dormitory. The sky appeared leaden and the clouds hung low, obliterating any trace of the Manlost Mountains, which rose in jagged splendor from the Academy’s perch in the foothills. Below the school, Kelgan glimpsed his home town of Belleran. Beyond that sprawled the Bellerwald Forest and, almost farther than the eye could see, the autarchy of Bellermond. The Academy, itself, possessed no name. None was needed.

The first fat drops began to splash angrily on the pavement by the time they reached the Sorcerers’ lodge. Drawing his own dun-colored cloak more tightly around him, the junior smirked, said, Here you are, and turned on his heel.

Kelgan swallowed the sudden lump of apprehension in his throat. The inquiry had come even sooner than he expected; before he could prepare a convincing excuse. He was dark-frakking sure no one was going to know about the voices! Not yet, at any rate. Did he hear a faint whisper of scornful laughter? Forcing himself to calm for a second time, he rapped at Sargal’s study door. A surprisingly thin voice for one so powerful bade him enter.

Kelgan stepped through the doorway into the low-ceilinged room; then halted abruptly, blinking in surprise. The room contained not only the Master Sorcerer, but a good half-dozen others as well, including two women. How could so many fit in here? The room overflowed with the collection of a lifetime of magical research—books on every surface, mysterious vessels of even more mysterious contents, alembics for the distilling of who-knows-what (mostly for show, since Sargon rarely used them for anything but the creation of a rather heady aperitif), and a scattering of various bones. Unused to anyone but himself and Sargal, Kelgan marveled at the throng.

His eyes, of course, went first to the women. One, an obvious aristocrat, was heart-stoppingly lovely. Her pitch-black hair, which seemed to absorb rather than reflect light, swirled in unceasing rhythm around her head as though she remained outside in the storm rather than sheltered within the walls of the study. Her skin appeared to be a uniform ivory—no tinge of rose to either cheeks or lips, and her eyes the same well-deep ebony of her hair. Kelgan felt his chest constrict painfully when he looked at her. Whether attraction or repulsion, he could not say.

Brown was the first impression he received from the other woman, brown hair, eyes, tanned skin, brown riding dress. Almost certainly a lady’s maid, he dismissed her. A closer look proved her to be attractive in her own way. However, she seemed unaccountably nervous, plucking at the waistband of her skirt.

A man, whose kinship with the black-haired woman could not be gainsaid, either in coloring or in beauty, stood at the fireplace with his back half-turned to the room. The richness of his clothing proclaimed him a person of importance, as did his indifferent stance. The other three men were armed retainers, shocking inside the Academy, where no arms were allowed.

Come in, come in. Don’t stand like a first-year novice, ordered Sargal.

Feeling a fool, and at a disadvantage before the women, Kelgan did as instructed.

Sargal announced, I have a commission for you, my son.

Feeling more foolish than ever; Kelgan just gaped. This was so far from the reprimand he had anticipated, he could find nothing intelligent to say.

Sargal ignored his seeming idiocy and hurried on. My Lord, may I present Under-Mage Kelgan Defthand the most advanced, as well as most able, of the Academy’s pupils. Kelgan noted that Sargal took care not to call him a Senior Apprentice. Kelgan, this is Lord Nevander di Nerrill, of Nerrill’s Keep.

As he bowed, Kelgan eyed the young lord with curiosity. Everyone had heard of the di Nerrills, although few had actually encountered them. A group of armed men, sometimes, in the town, an occasional coach and entourage—that was all anyone saw or knew. Rumors were plentiful, but how close they came to truth was anybody’s guess.

Lord di Nerrill has need of a wizard to perform rather simple, routine, spells for him, Sargal added, and I thought a change of scene would do you some good.

So! What Sargal didn’t say was obvious. This was a rebuke, and Kelgan would be expected to return with a better attitude or else!

Kelgan bowed again.

I shall do my best to please Lord di Nerrill, Magister, he said through gritted teeth. He felt the sting of Sargal’s emphasis on simple and routine. This commission was merely a ruse in lieu of an outright dressing-down, and Kelgan felt his face burn in shame.

Lord di Nerrill, who continued to gaze into the fire, ignored the introduction. He whirled at Kelgan’s words and fixed him with an unblinking stare. Kelgan winced at the appearance of hostility patent in the gaze.

I should think you would, Under-Mage. The Lord bared his teeth in a wolfish smile, as though the words were but a jest.

In spite of Lord di Nerrill’s almost unearthly beauty, Kelgan felt it must overlay something far darker, and harder, than could be perceived by the non-magical. Did Sargal not feel it as well? The Magister was old, but his behavior had never given Kelgan the slightest hint of the encroaching feebleness of age. Despite his voice, Sargal exuded power. Kelgan always felt Sargal could read his soul with one sharp glance. Why then did he seem oblivious to the menace radiating from Lord di Nerrill, but so apparent to Kelgan? A second’s reflection told him Sargal was just as aware, else there would be no oddness in the Master’s behavior. Kelgan felt the jaws of a large trap close around him—he was being cast into the hands of a Black Warlock!

Shaking his head at this ridiculous idea—of course Sargal would never consider such an action—he gathered himself and attempted to at least look like a competent Under-Mage.

He had just glanced at Sargal with unease when, in a bewildering about face, Lord di Nerrill suddenly exuded charm and charisma. Forgive my ill-humor, Under-Mage, he cried, it has been a long ride through beastly weather, and I have let it upset me. There is no reason you should be included in my bad mood. He smiled gaily and waved his hand at the two women. Let me present you properly to my sister, Neroma, and her companion, Terencia.

Kelgan bowed yet a third time, in the direction of the women. The companion, Terencia, dropped a hasty curtsy, while Neroma di Nerrill merely stared. The agitation of her hair increased, but she made no other acknowledgment.

My sister is badly affected by inclement weather, commented Lord di Nerrill, by way of explanation.

Kelgan, who suspected consciousness of superior position, rather than response to the weather, at the heart of Neroma’s seeming rudeness, muttered something noncommittal. Clearing his throat, he ventured to question Lord di Nerrill, Can you tell me something of my duties, milord?

Duties! cried Lord di Nerrill, nay, nay! Rather foolish trifles, insignificant bagatelles, for one so talented. His sidelong glance at Kelgan combined malice with derision, thus turning his ostensible praise into insult. Once you are settled comfortably at my estate, then it will be time to speak of your ‘duties.’

Kelgan turned once again to Magister Sargal with a look of inquiry. You will be a guest in Lord di Nerrill’s household as long as he has need of you, affirmed Sargal.

Was it only imagination, Kelgan thought, or did Sargal’s voice stumble over the word guest? The commission would have been an unwelcome one, no matter who the commissioner, but coming from Lord di Nerrill it was doubly so. Kelgan would not have wished to leave the familiarity of the Academy until he had solved the problem of the whispers. To follow Nevander di Nerrill, whom Kelgan could not help comparing to an unusually beautiful spider, into his web made his stomach churn.

When do you have need of me, milord, he asked.

Lord di Nerrill plans to return with you tonight.

There! No mistaking the quaver in the elder Mage’s thin voice that time.

How could this be? Sargal’s mastery of power always seemed virtually unlimited, his wisdom profound. What threat could turn him from a sorcerer of unparalleled confidence to a trembling old man?

Nevander di Nerrill shrewdly eyed Kelgan. Can you be ready within the hour?

Kelgan swallowed a denial and whispered, Yes, milord.

We will meet again here, then, in one hour, Nevander’s voice rose on an inquiring note, once more as though he easily read Kelgan’s reluctance and urge to flee.

Kelgan merely said, At your pleasure, milord, and turned on his heel.

Once through the door and back in the hall, Kelgan felt the sweat break out on his forehead and also trickle down his armpits. That there was more to this commission than the mere bagatelles Lord di Nerrill had so dismissively cited, he had no doubt. A mere that could shake even Sargal’s poise was not a mere Kelgan wished to have revealed to him. What use could there be for an Under-Mage? Moreover, why an Under-Mage in the first place?

Back in his room, Kelgan packed swiftly. He had few enough belongings, anyway. His kit of herbs and philtres always stood ready at hand. He smiled as he tucked the kit in his pack. Laypeople always expected a Mage to use magic powders or charms to cast a spell, when every sorcerer knew magic sprang directly from the mind. The kit proved useful for parlor tricks, however, and the herbs for healing simple ailments where magic would have been intrusive.

Glancing around the room, a tingle of panic assailed him. Bare though it was, it now took on the aspect of a refuge, familiar as a glove, and as snugly fitted to his personality. Shaking his head to dispel such thoughts, he swung his gray cloak around him, shouldered his pack and left the room. He had a moment of sour amusement as he left the door standing wide. They wanted to know what lay within—well so be it. Grimacing, he strode across the courtyard once more through the now driving rain.

··· 2 ···

Another World (where they eat better)

L

ord di Nerrill and his small entourage plodded almost silently through the dark. The horses’ hooves were muffled by the mud of the roadway, and no one seemed to feel either the need or the energy to speak. They had passed quickly through the town and plunged deep into the forest. The only light came from a shaded lantern carried by one of di Nerrill’s men-of-arms, who led the procession.

To Kelgan’s surprise, the women rode pillion behind the other two men-at-arms; the fourth horse was waiting for him, leaving no doubt that his submission to their request was expected. An inexperienced rider, he had assumed (or hoped for) a coach at least, especially if Lord di Nerrill’s assertion were true—that his sister fared badly in storms. Certainly, she seemed no worse off than he, himself, wet to the skin and barely able to keep his teeth from chattering. Her uncovered hair, which by all rights should have been plastered to her skull, still moved in that unearthly rhythm, apparently lifted by a Zephyr particular to herself. No stranger to peculiarity, still he found that pulsing dance unsettling.

He found Neroma di Nerrill unsettling, as well. She had uttered not a word even to her companion, Terencia, as they prepared to depart, yet she and her brother seemed in constant communication. Now and again she would turn her great eyes on Kelgan as though she would impart some dire knowledge, but not a sound escaped her.

In the odd haste of their departure, she had stood still and aloof, watching the preparations closely, but taking no part in them. When all was ready, she mounted without assistance and with no offer of any, Kelgan noted. Then they were away into the night, beginning their miserable trek to Nerrill’s Keep.

Kelgan lost track of the passage of time. It could have been days since they’d quitted the Academy. On and on, chilled by more than the rain, Kelgan’s head began to nod. He was recalled quickly to himself by a familiar voice, which whispered in his ear. Too, too much! Too, too many.

The tone sounded petulant, no laughter this time. He gave a great start, eyes wild, convulsively grasping the reins to keep from pitching headlong. Nevander di Nerrill dropped back to his side to inquire in a low voice, but with that tinge of derisiveness that was starting to rasp Kelgan’s nerves, Are you all right? Not much farther now.

Sorry, milord, just a little drowsy, he replied.

What an amazing fellow you are, taunted di Nerrill, able to sleep through anything, I warrant. He spoke still in the same low voice, but the derisiveness increased.

He grasped the reins again, this time to avoid aiming a punch at his Lordship’s nose. I guess so, he agreed, outwardly mild.

Di Nerrill gave a small snort of amusement and regained his place behind the lantern-holder.

They seemed to be nearing the Keep. The horses had begun to pick up the pace without prodding, perhaps in anticipation of oats and a warm, dry stall. He envied them. A warm dry stall would have been just fine with him—he would even settle for oats—a cold, stone Keep, the last place he wanted to be. Dimly yet, some wavering lights could be seen, punctuating the otherwise blank page of night with bright periods.

At least the infernal rain will be off my head, he growled to himself.

The word infernal caused a crawling sensation at the base of his neck. Infernal! Like the whispers? Were those demons besetting him; creatures from an unimaginable dimension of evil? Is that why they only came at night, the hours when evil could easily broach the barriers which sunlight erected?

Shrugging his shoulders, he murmured Superstitious rot and forced a humorless laugh at his own folly. So easily does one become a craven.

Something amuses you, Mage? inquired Lord di Nerrill.

No, no, milord. I was just hoping to get out of this pea soup, and obtain some real pea soup, Kelgan temporized.

Lord di Nerrill gave another snort at this feeble jest, and spurred his horse. The others followed suit. They racketed downhill, making what Kelgan thought an unwarranted amount of noise after the claustrophobic silence of the forest journey.

Either the watchers on the walls had remarkably keen eyesight, or some mysterious signal had alerted them to the source of the racket, because the drawbridge rattled down at the same instant as the portcullis rose. The small band galloped through as though the devil chased them, followed, to Kelgan’s baffled amazement, by four stout bearers carrying a recently slain boar.

More like the devils ride with us. Keeping his seat with difficulty, he felt bruised by that final explosive rush.

What was that in aid of? Kelgan wondered. The sudden inexplicable rush, after the plodding silence of the journey, not to mention the almost ludicrous appearance of the hunters, further jangled his already uneasy state. The clang of the portcullis behind him made him feel cut off from the world, and simply added an exclamation point to his gathering anxiety.

He felt Neroma di Nerrill’s great eyes on him again before she slid, unaided as before, from the back of the horse.

Come, Mage, urged Lord di Nerrill, quickly to my study.

He noticed that somewhere during the trip he had been promoted. Lord di Nerrill seemed to have dispensed with the under portion of Kelgan’s title. He followed the Lord into the Keep.

Astonished, he stared upwards. Rather than the gloomy dungeon of his imagination, the great hall was gay with fluttering pennons, like colorful butterflies darting near the ceiling, and well-lit with torches. Heavy tapestries covered the walls and a fire roared (the only word for it) in a fireplace taller than a man.

Lord di Nerrill glanced around impatiently. You can gawk later, Mage.

Stung by the implication that he was an unsophisticated bumpkin, Kelgan hastened after his host.

Di Nerrill’s study was another surprise. By some miracle of hydraulics, a fountain played chattily in the center of the room. A small brook cut a swath from the fountain, flowed to an opening in one wall, and plunged in a miniature waterfall to the moat below. Torches again filled the room with their yellow glow, and small strategically placed braziers warded off the chill emanating from the damp stone walls. No tapestries here to hide a man, but high-backed, bonneted chairs with soft cushions foiled the best efforts of the drafts.

Come, let me show you my waterworks. Lord di Nerrill’s voice rang unnaturally loud and false to Kelgan’s ears, and His Lordship’s smile more resembled the baring of a predator’s teeth.

Does he never perform a natural action? Is he always a strutting player even in his nightrobe? Aloud, he said, It is a most charming and clever toy, milord, and soothing to the ear. To himself he added, and could be constructed by a first-year apprentice.

Approach the water closely, Mage, you will find it delightfully scented.

Kelgan did as he was bade, standing at the very rim of the fountain. Indeed, milord, it is a most delicate and refreshing scent.

What nonsense is this? Why are we babbling as inanely as the brook? Scented fountains were not exactly a novelty. The fashion of the moment, they were toys for most of the aristocracy. Am I supposed to applaud? Gush like the fountain? Does he think I’m such a country dolt, that I would be impressed? Resentment caused him to silently grind his teeth.

His host stood shoulder to shoulder with him and gazed into the water for some moments without speaking. Then he turned toward him with a face as unlike that which Kelgan had come to expect as Kelgan’s from Sargal. "Now, now, he repeated, we cannot be overheard—either physically or psychically."

What? exclaimed Kelgan.

It was necessary to get you here on a foolish pretext, asserted Lord di Nerrill. "Now I am going to tell you a story, and I will apprise you of your real duties." The predator rictus returned briefly to his face and then was wiped away.

What did you mean when you said we could not be overheard psychically? Kelgan inquired. Is the room warded?

He was already familiar with the use of water to blot out voices, although he had not seen it used in such a spectacular manner. However, he had felt no warning tingle, which usually alerted him to the presence of another’s magic. He had, however, attempted a few abortive experiments of his own with various wardings not in the book, many of which eluded him entirely. Nonetheless, he refused to admit that to His Lordship.

As you must know, the delightful scent serves another purpose than delectation, replied di Nerrill. It is, itself, the ward.

Kelgan’s eyebrows shot upwards—a ward of scent! Sargal had spoken contemptuously of such-like, and was scornful of all physical aids. His own failed experiments prompted him to assume Sargal’s scorn, which, in turn, influenced his own attitude toward herbs and philtres.

"But those are not real magic," he burst out.

Lord di Nerrill’s eyebrows now imitated Kelgan’s, although he displayed the first real amusement of their acquaintance. Yet again, he seemed to pick Kelgan’s thoughts from his brain. You are thinking of potions and unguents, my friend. Are you not? This, ah, effect is somewhat different. But now to my story.

··· 3 ···

Other Voices (other ears)

"S

everal months ago, related the Lord of Nerrill’s Keep, I began to have what I thought at first were dreams. It seemed that voices were whispering to me in my sleep. They asked meaningless questions. Breaking off, he noticed Kelgan’s wild stare and ashen visage. What…?"

Milord, was one voice high and petulant, the other low and self-confident?

Yes, that is exactly how they seemed, affirmed Lord Nerrill, a knowing smile creeping across his face.

Milord, I, too, have heard these whisperers, heard them till I fear to close my eyes lest they assail me. Mine ask no questions, however, only taunt me with statements I don’t understand, Kelgan exclaimed excitedly.

After he blurted out this admission, Kelgan silently berated himself. Curse me for a fool! I really am a bumpkin. Has he bewitched my brains? Why tell him anything until I have heard all?

All his earlier suspicions came flooding back. Was this some ruse to gain his confidence? To what end? If di Nerrill was responsible for the voices, this elaborate hoax was totally superfluous. He already had Kelgan where he wanted him. Wanted him for what? Why? Kelgan was nobody, a clever Under-Mage, still some months from graduation. Talented, yes, he could say that, but lacking either experience or maturity. Try as he might, Kelgan could understand none of it.

As Kelgan fumed inwardly, Lord Nerrill continued to stare at him with a quizzical expression. Please call me Nevander, he said, was his anticlimactic comment.

Kelgan began to laugh at the utter absurdity of this bland request, soon whooping helplessly in nervous reaction. Di Nerrill clapped him several times on the back with more than just friendly force as Kelgan struggled for control.

I’m s-s-sorry, milord, uh, Nevander, he gasped. You caught me off guard.

Do you not appreciate the seriousness of my tale, Mage? Di Nerrill spoke with hauteur, but a slight smile quirked the corners of his mouth.

Kelgan sobered quickly. "I haven’t heard much of it yet, mil—Nevander. But, yes, if anyone can, I do appreciate the seriousness."

Let me continue. Nevander’s brow veed with concentration as he resumed his narrative. At first, I disregarded the voices, attributing them to the Lord of Night-mare. However, they grew ever more insistent, till finally they intruded on my waking hours.

Kelgan started. They come in the daylight? The idea filled him with dread.

No, never till the sun has flown and the night has closed in. But come with darkness, they do. Nevertheless, the continual anticipation of their presence fast began to affect my every action, were it day or night.

You said they asked meaningless questions. In what way were they so?

Ah, replied Nevander, "I should better have said the questions held no meaning for me. They asked me ‘When, Nevander?’ ‘Why, Nevander?’ ‘How soon, Nevander?’ How could I understand such questions? I only know that, as the months went by, I began to feel a sense of some impending catastrophe. That is when I felt I must turn to the Academy."

Kelgan felt a faint prick of his earlier suspicion.

Seeing his face darken, Nevander demanded, Out with it.

You do not need us. Either you, yourself, are a sorcerer, or you have one already in your employ, stated Kelgan, while thinking, one of the Black persuasion, it’s obvious.

Oh. Nevander’s eyebrows rose. And why say you that?

The scent warding is enough to tell me, replied Kelgan in the same flat tone.

Hmmm, well, I’ll admit to knowing a few simple spells, but nothing of consequence, demurred Nevander.

Simple! Kelgan took a step back in amazement.

Surely, this is but a first-level exercise for you Academicians, retorted Nevander in patent disbelief.

Kelgan hesitated. Should he dissemble? Should he admit ignorance to one whom he did not trust? He had already betrayed himself with regard to the voices. Again, he reminded himself that it mattered little; Nevander di Nerrill had had the advantage of him from the start.

Deciding to be candid, he confessed, The psychic scent warding is not within my repertoire, milord.

Di Nerrill looked both astonished and suspicious. I have stated my preference for my first name, he reminded Kelgan.

Sorry, Nevander, Kelgan sighed, but until a few short years ago I was just the stepson of a miller. I haven’t rubbed elbows with too many lords.

Nevander acknowledged, We will indeed be ‘rubbing elbows’ for some time, I imagine. But, tell me, is this the whole truth when you disclaim knowledge of the scent ward?

Even though he did not fully trust di Nerrill, Kelgan felt hurt when his own word was doubted. I would have no reason to lie in this regard mi… Nevander. Why would I want to appear less competent than I am?

You didn’t ask for this commission, and you do not trust me even now. Perhaps you hope to be sent home in disgrace, replied di Nerrill.

Kelgan ruefully acknowledged the justice of di Nerrill’s accusation. You’re right, I didn’t want the commission. Besides, you’ve given me no reason to trust you.

How have I given you cause to distrust me? di Nerrill inquired frostily.

Answers crowded to Kelgan’s tongue—all sounding equally feeble. Finally, Kelgan chose the simplest, I don’t know you.

Di Nerrill threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration. And so, because you do not know me, I automatically become your enemy?

Kelgan’s frustration was equal. No, no, not my enemy, just not my friend.

Di Nerrill smiled with genuine warmth. You have the right of it, my reluctant Mage. But, please, afford me the benefit of the doubt, especially since we seem to be in the same boat. I will tender you the same.

So, he continued, you are nearly a full-fledged sorcerer but the scent ward is unknown to you. This is not a pleasant surprise, Under-Mage.

Kelgan took notice of the fact that he had been demoted again.

Nor to me, Nevander, Kelgan stated. I did not understand why you wanted an Under-Mage in the first place. Is it possible you thought us more powerful than we are?

More powerful than I, certainly, affirmed di Nerrill, his dismay evident.

At that moment, the study door opened. Framed in the doorway stood Neroma di Nerrill, haloed by the hall light. She posed there for some seconds before stepping into the room.

Kelgan was positive the dramatic effect was well-calculated in advance. Another play-actor, he thought with annoyance, more studied even than her brother.

Nevander…, she began.

For the first time Kelgan heard her voice—if velvet could speak, it would have that exact sound—low, husky, somehow furred. Di Nerrill beckoned her to the fountain.

Once more Kelgan was subjected to the plaintive scrutiny of Neroma’s eyes. What does she want of me? Why do I feel she implores, although she has asked nothing?

Her hair, in its blind search, brushed across his face. Another frisson chilled him, the same mixture of attraction and repulsion sweeping over him.

Nevander, she began again, you have stayed here too long. You must come down.

I have not yet made the situation clear to the Mage, replied di Nerrill.

It will become clear, she retorted. "You must come down."

Di Nerrill sighed, My sister is correct, Mage, the flower of suspicion grows quickly in such a fertile pot. We must go down to the hall. You need sustenance, anyway, some of that pea soup perhaps?

Kelgan smiled weakly and followed them out the door.

Once more in the gaily decorated hall, Kelgan couldn’t decide if he felt relief or discomfort. There was a respectable number of people milling there, which was unexpected. Somehow because of their rare appearances (or more accurately nonappearances) in the town, Kelgan had seen Nevander and Neroma di Nerrill as melancholy hermits, not ordinary nobles with active social lives. Although their extraordinary looks certainly set them apart from the run-of-the-mill.

Nevander di Nerrill greeted a few bystanders and introduced Kelgan. General Cordain, meet our latest entertainer, fresh from the court of Aldera. Di Nerrill’s firm grip on Kelgan’s arm warned him to silence.

What does he do? General Cordain favored Kelgan with a somewhat unfriendly glance.

Sleight-of-hand and spectacular effects, replied di Nerrill gaily.

Cordain’s expression became even less friendly. A Magician!

An entertainer, General, here to give us pleasure. But first a late repast, then just one or two illusions before we retire.

Kelgan groaned silently. Parlor tricks!

Say nothing, whispered di Nerrill, under the guise of passing Kelgan a glass of wine.

Kelgan attempted to assess the situation. It seemed that no one trusted anyone else. Kelgan did not trust di Nerrill, at least as yet. Di Nerrill obviously found his own court untrustworthy. They just as obviously regarded his Lordship with suspicion, since di Nerrill deemed it necessary to conceal Kelgan’s true identity.

Kelgan gave up the effort; he simply possessed too little information. The only fact he could be certain of was that he heard the voices. He could not even be sure that di Nerrill did. He was sure di Nerrill needed him for some purpose as yet unrevealed; less certain was whether that purpose would be in Kelgan’s own best interest. The food was good, however; so was the wine. For the moment, Kelgan allowed himself a bit of relaxation. Then he caught Neroma’s gaze and his muscles tightened.

He saw that the assembled throng gave her a wide berth. To a man, or woman, they turned nervously aside as she floated among them—a raven at a gathering of macaws. She, in turn, either did not notice or did not care.

As she captured his eye, her head made the slightest of nods, and for a moment, the ebony tendrils of her hair seemed to reach toward him. No rest for the weary, he thought. Kelgan pushed his plate away and gained Neroma’s side.

Time, was her only comment. Kelgan grimaced and prepared to make a fool of himself.

Di Nerrill was already drawing the attention of the assembly. My friends, a rare treat—a master of sleight-of-hand has agreed to perform for us.

The almost imperceptible emphasis on ‘friends’ did not escape Kelgan. Eyes turned his way and a curious murmur ran around the room.

These people must be starved for diversion, if I’m considered a ‘rare treat.’ He suspected his host’s self-deprecated talents were not common knowledge to the group present.

He moved to the dais, where all could see him clearly. Quickly he ran through a few simple exercises of prestidigitation, which drew a few chuckles from the crowd. He produced an egg from one lady’s elaborate hairdo, caused coins to appear and disappear, and other small feats. When he saw that his audience grew restless, he proceeded to one or two more complex illusions, aided by just a touch of real power. As he did so, he felt the unmistakable warning tingle which announced the presence of another’s magic. At the same time, he felt a light touch as though someone unseen had brushed by him. For a moment his control faltered and the illusion threatened to collapse. Regaining control, he quickly brought the performance to an end. Scattered applause and a few mutters of disappointment rewarded him, but most were already turning away.

Kelgan’s shirt, scarcely dry from the long, wet ride, clung damply to him again—this time from nervous perspiration. There was another trained sorcerer here beside himself (and possibly) Nevander. Not only was there an unknown Mage present, the unknown was well aware of Kelgan. That light touch had been a probe. How much had been learned was impossible to ascertain. His concentration had been focused on his silly illusion, and he had had no reason to think he should keep his guard up. Why did I not think so, more and more I am a fool. I should wish to shield myself from Nevander, if no one else—certainly until I learn more. How is it I have become so careless?

On and on he